This is a space for me to write, share my words and play with poetry. You are very welcome here.

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About sarahsouthwest

I'm now in my early 50s. I started writing again as a way of exploring the world, and feel that over the last 2 years I have really grown as a writer. By day I work with children and young people with mental health difficulties. I juggle my own two children, my work, my writing practice, generally managing to keep all the balls up in the air.

and, as pilgrims do, we shed possessions,
left behind all those empty things,
stepped out of our concrete boxes
and touched the earth
stepped out of our metal boxes
and nourished flesh

and walked
as pilgrims do
so that our world shrank and grew

breathing more freely with each step.
Afterwards, we became pilgrims,

palms open to the sky,
sailing to new worlds,
walking down those old paths,
forging new ways,
changing the world as we went.

This is for Brendan at Earthweal, who asks “What happens next?”. It feels like the world’s in a bad way. Corona virus brought so much fear and pain, and death, but also a chance to step back and live a little differently. The US is on fire. Governments put the economy before people. Democracy is in a bad place. I have no idea what will happen next, but I hope it’s better than this.

If you like this, and if you care about this stuff, then check out Earthweal. There are some interesting poets there, writing very interesting stuff.

The hedge is heavy with summer.
The deer is suddenly there,
suddenly still. We freeze.
One ear flicks forward.
Our eyes meet – we are not predator –
as suddenly she slips off the lane,
into some place of myth
where we can’t folllow her.

we feed him our sleep
we feed him our dreams
we feed him the swift-footed moments
of our children’s games

we feed him our children

more

we feed him meadows
bright with flowers
we feed him mountains
we feed him the river
shimmering with life
we feed him the sky

more

we feed him our souls
we feed him the elephant
the tiger the rhino
we feed him the eagle
the butterfly the bee
we feed him the sweet time
of holding a new-born
we feed him scurrying mice
we feed him the great singing whale
we feed him the ocean
we feed him the scent of bluebells
we feed him the taste of apples
tart in the mouth
we feed him our old ones

more

we feed
we feed

and the lie he tells us
is that he is real
and we swallow it
in our hunger
to feed

but we are still empty

more we say

more.

Sherry is manning (womanning?) the barricades at Earthweal this week, and asking for our poems of protest. I’m not even sure what I’m protesting against here – it’s too big. I started off with small specifics, but at the end of the day it’s the way the economy trumps people in too many western societies, and the way we have got caught up in this endless treadmill of consumerist crap to feed that economy. Covid-19 has thrown a lot of things into very sharp relief for me. I won’t go into it here, but I’m interested to see what’s bubbling under.

out there, there are bean plants
unfurling in the dark,
those fat first leaves,

and I’m wondering
what will happen now, and

out there, the stars
are moving in fixed patterns
jazzed by satellites

and I have fragments of fears
and questions
and an emptiness in my belly, and

out there, moths are waltzing
in their crazy dances

and I’m awake
listening to your breathing, and

out there, bats are diving,
sonar-guided

and we have no guide,
no rhythm, no pattern –
we are unfurling
fractal humans
seeking a new shape.

Just sneaking in to Earthweal this week – wondering about the future, full of uncertainty. As usual with Brendan’s prompts, my head is full of half-thoughts and broken images, and a sense of urgency that I find hard to capture.

A tanka for Frank, who is hosting at dVerse tonight. We are celebrating National Tanka Month, and looking at 3 Japanese 5 line forms. Frank gives a straightforward explanation on his dVerse post. I’ve written many haiku, but this is my first tanka.

I’ve crossed some thresholds
with a blood libation,
some with music and champagne.
I’ve slipped through some
unknowing.

I’ve stepped with confidence
from one warm room
into a maze carved out of ice,
myself caught behind thick glass,
watching one world,
part of another,
coldness becoming part of me –

and then I’ve passed
from wilderness to pastureland,
missing the gateway,
my eyes fixed too far in the distance.

I’ve lost charms, and I’ve found them.
I’ve stepped through mighty doorways
carved with old gods and scenes of
metamorphosis – and found myself
unchanged, and waiting for me –
opened bland doors into bland rooms
scented with pain and kindness –

I have learned
that each breath is a step,
and the pathway clear sometimes,
and sometimes hard to trace